Watson's Woes July 2013
by Pompey
Summary: Creating a master-list of fics for my challenge answers for 2013. Various universes, varying lengths, all whumping on Watson.
1. July 1

Prompt 1: Two cats under an umbrella

Title: In the Footsteps of Churchill

Fandom/universe: BBC Sherlock

Rated: G

Word: 221 (B)

Summary: John does something very sweet and silly. Mrs. Hudson confirms the former.

A/N: Mrs. Hudson's gram's saying is an Irish one. (I can't confirm that the Churchill/Hitler trivia is true, but shouldn't it be? :D)

* * *

"Wherever is your umbrella?" demanded Mrs. Hudson as John peeled off his saturated jacket and shoes. His jeans, up to the knees, were actually dripping, as was his hair. His face and hands were pink with cold.

"Gone."

She considered. "Go change into something dry and join me for a cuppa. As a friend, mind you. Still not your housekeeper."

John managed a smile. "Ta, Mrs. Hudson."

Minutes later, swathed in layers of wool and flannel, John regarded his cup of tea with something akin to worship. "I can't thank you enough for this."

"You can thank me by explain how you got so wet."

He hesitated. "You'll think I'm utterly daft."

"After Sherlock? I doubt it."

"You can't tell Sherlock. I mean it."

"Not one word, dear. Now what happened?"

"I was walking by that fountain on Wadsworth Street, and I heard two kittens crying. They were on that platform in the middle of the fountain. They were trapped. I waded in to get them but they ran away. So . . . I left my umbrella propped up there so they'd at least be sheltered from the rain." John waited, embarrassed.

Mrs. Hudson didn't laugh. "Churchill liked cats and Hitler hated them. My Irish gran always said, 'beware of people who dislike cats' and that is something I believe."


	2. July 2

Prompt #2:**From A to Z: **Use at least two of the following words: abdicate, automaton, allele, Zarathustra, zither

Title: Faith

Universe: Elementary

Rating: PG (one naughty word, drugging)

Summary: Joan's self-doubts come to the surface after a brush with a drug-dealer. Sherlock reassures her.

* * *

Joan Watson had had her doubts about this case from the get-go, from the moment the teen with the dirty blond hair collapsed from drug-induced arrhythmia. But there was no stopping Sherlock. There never was. Which was how they ended up in a back alley, grappling with a syringe-wielding drug dealer bent on exterminating the two busybodies ruining his business. And that was precisely when Joan felt the sharp pinch of a needle, even through her trench coat, button-down shirt, and tee shirt.

She said nothing about it to Sherlock or the police. Not even after they gathered up the now-empty syringe as evidence. Not even when Sherlock stared at the syringe and shot her a sharp look. And Sherlock said nothing to her on the way back to Baker Street.

Joan tried hard not to sigh with relief. She felt herself detaching from her body, separating soul from body. Her movements felt strange – stiff, jerky, uncontrolled, like she was changing into an automaton or robot and her gears were jamming. Joan could feel her pulse pounding away in her carotid arteries and wondered if it would be visible if she took off her scarf. She took it off anyway. It was too hot to do otherwise. It was too hot to be wearing so many layers, and after the trench coat was gone, she fumbled at the buttons of the top shirt.

Joan saw Sherlock glancing her way but she turned away without meeting his eyes. She'd barricade herself in her room for the next twelve hours, until whatever she'd been injected with had run its course. Nobody would know and everything would be fine. Just so long as she could keep it secr –

"Show me."

"Huh?" Joan started. She hadn't even heard Sherlock come up behind her.

"Show me your arm." He took hold of the limb in question and pushed the sleeve up. One fingertip touched the small, fresh scab halfway between elbow and shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Joan pulled out of his grasp and rolled down her sleeve. "I was a doctor. I can handle it."

"That isn't what I asked." Sherlock looked hard at her, even after she turned her back to him and slipped off her buttoned shirt. "What are your symptoms, besides elevated body temperature?"

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. I'll be fine." Beads of sweat were gathering on her face. She didn't dare wipe them away, not with him watching.

"Dilated pupils," the irritating man persisted. "Rapid breathing. Quick, sudden movements." Cool fingers wrapped around her wrist, pressing on her pulse point. "Increased heart rate. Perspiration. You know what you were injected with."

Joan squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, she knew. She knew Sherlock knew. And now he knew that she knew that he knew and oh God, she was getting incoherent. She had to get away from him, keep him from the poison coursing through her veins. She'd tried to protect him from himself, from herself, and now it was for nothing. He'd succumb to temptation because of her because once a person was an addict they were an addict for life through and through, right down to their alleles; they only could become recovered addicts and Sherlock would fail to stay sober because she failed as a sober companion, because what kind of sober companion gets herself shot full of cocaine while on the job; and Christ, what were her parents going to say when she showed up on their doorstep, unemployed and a failure yet again; what would his family say to her, the woman who got high when she was supposed to be protecting him –

"Watson. Watson! _Joan_!"

The sound of her first name shocked her enough to pay attention to him and not her frantic, anguished thoughts. She looked at Sherlock, trying to keep a desperate plea for help off her face. She didn't think she succeeded. The unusual look of compassion he gave her was proof of that.

Quietly he led her to the couch and gently pushed her into it, lifting her feet onto the cushions so that she was nearly lying down. "The dose was not a large one and it was diluted. But your build is slight and you have no experience so you're going to feel the effects rather strongly. I'm afraid there's not much to be done except to ride it out, unless you want to ride it out in the hospital?"

Frantically Joan shook her head no. The first experience with cocaine was rarely fatal unless the person had a heart condition, which she didn't. But even if she did, she couldn't risk the slightest chance of this being reported to the police.

"I thought not." Sherlock smiled at her faintly. "I'll get you some water. Try to relax. Enjoy it if you can."

"Enjoy it!" Joan shot up and her feet hit the floor with a thump. "How am I supposed to enjoy this? I was drugged against my will and I've put you in danger of relapse and I may as well kiss my job good-bye! Nothing about this is enjoyable!" She stopped, only because she couldn't catch her breath and the pounding in her neck was so powerful it was painful. Fear clenched her throat and to her abject humiliation, she felt her eyes burn with tears.

Gently, firmly, Sherlock made her sit and guided her head between her knees. Then he crouched in front of her. "Joan. You're working yourself into a panic attack. Calm down. It isn't as bad as what you're imagining. No, let me explain," he insisted when she started to reply.

"Your job is in no danger. You did not take illicit drugs voluntarily and you never will. Your body will metabolize it completely in a week or so by my estimate, and leave no evidence after that. It would not be to my advantage to tell anyone about this. You are by far the most tolerable sober companion I could have hoped for."

Joan snorted despite her still-pounding heart and her nose still touching her knees. Only Sherlock could mean the phrase "most tolerable" as high praise.

"I know you were drugged against your will. I'm very sorry for that. Not only because of the inherent violation of your body, minor as it was, and not only because it puts you in the middle of a medical ethics predicament, but because of how it has affected you. And that brings me to my final point.

"You worry that being injected with cocaine will tempt me into using again. There is nothing tempting about it, not when I see you so miserable. How could I be tempted by a substance that causes a friend harm?"

Joan considered that, both the sentiment and the words. It was a little easier to breath now and it didn't feel like her heart was trying punch through her ribs anymore. Best of all, the tears had ebbed. She still felt oddly detached from reality and a bit like a hummingbird hopped up on speed but it was bearable. "Thank you," she murmured, sitting up carefully.

"You're welcome." Sherlock stood and took a step back. "I'll get you that water now but I'll have to go out for some Tylenol PM. That is, if you want to get any sleep tonight."

Small alarm bells went off in Joan's head. "I'll go with you. I've got energy to burn."

"I'm not going out to get a hit, Watson," Sherlock said softly. "I'm not going to do anything that will jeopardize either of us. Have some faith."

It was too soon after rehab to trust his self-control. It was too soon after being exposed yet again to dealers. And yet, he called her his friend, and by all accounts it should have been too soon for that too. "OK," she agreed, and judging by the time Sherlock was gone and back again, her faith was not misplaced.


	3. July 3

Prompt 3: incorporate philosophy or religion

Title: Nahala ("Inheritance")

Universe: BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG

Summary: Sherlock pries into something that's puzzled him since he saw John at his grave.

A/N: at the end of the story so as to avoid spoilers.

* * *

John felt Sherlock's eyes boring into him as he cut into his prosciutto and melon but did his best to pay no attention. Sherlock was just having one of his moods again. It was amazing how quickly he remembered his flatmate's quirks and little behaviors, even after eighteen months of separation.

"Why did you bother to convert to Judaism if you don't keep kosher?"

John's utensils froze mid-cut. It was also amazing how he never could get used to those sudden, out-of-the-blue intrusions into his private life, no matter how often they came. Deliberately he finished slicing and bit into the sweet, juicy melon and salty ham. "Because I like pork and shellfish too much. What brought this on?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were Jewish?"

"Because I'm not practicing anymore. I repeat: what brought this on?"

"And I repeat: why bother to convert to Judaism in the first place if you weren't going to practice the tenants of the faith?"

"I already answered two of your questions. It's your turn."

"Are you really resorting to grade school games?" Sherlock sneered. "I know your family is wholly Anglican with you the only exception. I know you converted to Judaism during your first year at university. I know you stopped practicing your new faith two or three years after that although you still consider yourself Jewish and that you do keep a few traditions at sporadic moments, especially those of emotional turmoil."

For the second time, John paused. "Right. So, you know all that and you can't deduce the rest?"

"No."

"O-okay."

"I don't have enough data."

"Oh." John considered that and Sherlock sat patiently, or as patiently as he ever could sit. "I dunno. It appealed to me at the time – the traditions, the history, the fact that it drove my parents only marginally less mad than when Harry came out. Which, I realize, is never a good reason to change religion, of course."

"That's why you stayed with it only a few years." It wasn't a question so John didn't bother to confirm that Sherlock was right. "But," he continued, "it made enough of an impression that you didn't completely abandon it."

That wasn't a question either, although there was a question behind it. "It's comforting, in its own way. It's order in chaos."

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered. "You like chaos. You thrive on it."

"I like danger," John corrected. "Chaos I can do without." He hesitated and then tried one last time. "Why does this matter to you?"

"Because it matters to you."

John brandished another piece of melon and prosciutto on his fork. "Yes, that's why I haven't kept kosher in years."

Sherlock shook his head. "You left a rock on my headstone. And the right cuff of your jacket was torn. Deliberately. Rent clothing. That mattered to you."

"Wait." John frowned, ignoring the track of conversation Sherlock was trying to lead him down. "How do you know I did all that?"

"I was there. In the cemetery."

Of course he had been. And of course he'd seen everything. Oh. Oh, God. He'd seen everything. Heard everything too, no doubt. John felt fire ignite in his cheeks and he kept his gazed fixed on his plate. " 'm sorry."

"For what? Grieving? Don't be stupider than you must be, John. I'm glad I know about your beliefs."

John rolled his eyes but didn't look up. "And why, dare I ask, is that?"

"Because it's important to know how to do things." Sherlock turned a faint pink as John raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That is, if I had to mourn you. I would want to do it the way you preferred."

John's head shot up and he stared straight into serious blue eyes. "You think about ways to mourn my death?"

"You've had snipers aiming at your head on at least two occasions since you met me. You like danger. I don't want to have the occasion to mourn you, ever, but if I must, then I want to do it right. Should I sit shiva too? Is that something you did for me? What about _shloshim_?"

"I . . ." John blinked, dazed. "Umm. I don't . . . I mean. I haven't thought about it."

"Then think about it and tell me."

John stabbed a piece of melon with far more force than necessary. "I really don't want to think about it, Sherlock."

"Then how am I supposed to know if I'm doing it right?"

John's fork thunked dully as he flatted it against the table. "There is no right or wrong way to mourn, Sherlock. Mourning is personal. It's for the people left behind. Do what you want. But I really, _really_ do not want to think about it. It's too s – it's bad timing for me. Ask me again in a couple decades. I might be ready then."

Sherlock sat back in his chair. "So you are saying we should hear only good tidings from each other? (1)"

It took John a moment to get it. Sherlock watched him closely, smiling minutely when realization bloomed across his face. John returned the smile. "Yes. That is exactly what I'm saying."

(1) "We should hear only good tidings from each other" is a wish given to mourning families in some Jewish communities during _shiva_.

A/N: This was inspired by a false memory. At the end of "Reichenbach," I thought John put a small stone on the top of the headstone. I couldn't bear to watch that scene again until today to verify that my memory was right (and yes, I cried. Again.) As it turns out . . . all John does is touch the stone. And the "rip" in his cuff was nothing but a shadow. Darn it anyway!


	4. July 4

Prompt 4: use an alliterative phrase

Title: Titles Are Hard

Word count: 100

Universe: Canon/Doyle

Summary: Watson needs a title. Holmes helps.

* * *

"The Adventure of the Harried Heiress."

"I beg your pardon?" Holmes asked, unsure he had understood Watson's mutterings.

"I'm trying to find a title for the Violet Smith case."

"And 'The Harried Heiress' is the best you could think of?"

Watson grimaced. "It was better than 'The Secret in Surrey' or 'The Case of the Carousing Carruthers.'"

"Yes, the former is vague and the latter is inaccurate. But 'The Harried Heiress' rather gives away the ending."

Watson sighed. "I have nothing else."

"What about 'The Solitary Cyclist'?"

" 'Solitary'? There were two cyclists, counting Miss Smith."

Holmes shrugged. "Suit yourself."


	5. July 5

Title: Human Contact

Universe: BBC Sherlock

Rating: R (for implied adult relations)

Summary: John learns a hard lesson. Or two.

A/N: "Blind Banker" does a scan of John's CV. John is one medically trained man!

* * *

Doctors Without Borders was an excellent opportunity for a surgeon-in-training to get some real world experience. And in the summer of 2001, between taking his Bachelor of Science from King's College and starting his courses for Bachelor of Surgery from the same, John joined up as an intern.

Strictly speaking, he was not there in a medical capacity; he was there to function as a communicator. Just how he was meant to do that when he spoke exclusively English and most of their Republic of South African patients spoke only Bantu was beyond him, but they muddled through.

After the first week, John was getting used to the long, impossibly hot days; and the smell of humanity when infections were left to rampage as they would and wash water was a, no pun intended, pipe dream; and the roller coaster of human babble combining with animal squawks and chirps. What he hadn't got used to was the image of one woman in an orange-red veil that hid all her face except her eyes.

Those eyes were larger and darker and sadder than any John had encountered, ever. They prompted him to smile kindly if ineffectually at her whenever he caught her eye. There was never any crinkle to indicate she smiled back at him. Nor did she interact with anyone. Rather, she hovered like an oversized butterfly at the edges of the tent compound, looking for a place to alight.

Then one evening, as the extra mosquito nets went up, she appeared at John's elbow and stood still, looking at him. One small, brown hand crept out of the folds of her veil and grasped his wrist. She gave a gentle tug. John followed.

He tried to make his movements slow, his attentions gentle, his kisses affectionate. He wanted to drive out of her mind whatever had caused her eyes to carry such unfathomable misery. She resisted; or rather, she resisted his attempts to give her pleasure and focused her attention on John's pleasure.

The next morning the woman was back in her orangy veil, once again hovering at the sidelines. She started to approach John during a lull but fled when one of the doctors drew near.

"You'll want to watch out for that one, mate," he advised John with an Aussie accent worn thin from years spent away from his homeland.

"What's wrong with her?" John demanded, assuming the sadness in those doe eyes was partially due to some bigotry or callousness for the foreign physicians.

"As best we can figure, she's this village's Patient Zero. HIV. Got raped by an infected man near ten years ago, spread it to her husband, and when he died she turned prostitute. Nobody knows how she's still alive after all this time, but Lord knows her partners aren't. She tries to ply her trade with all the fresh fish. Don't let her get too close but try to nice about it. Poor little sheila, nobody in the village even lets her within twenty feet of them without spitting on her or yelling curses at her."

John's blood turned to ice water and stayed that way throughout his internship. Even after he recalled they had used a condom, even after he had quietly sought out testing – negative, thank God!, even after he'd seen and experienced worse things in Afghanistan, the thought of the veiled woman still chilled him. It wasn't just his brush with HIV. It was imaging how desperately lonely a life she had led, and possibly still led. He rather hoped she hadn't lived much longer after her encounter with him. He couldn't imagine how much more misery her eyes could contain.


End file.
